


A Matter of the Mind

by acervate



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, he thinks it's all a matter of mind over body where he's wrong of course, john doesn't quite like domestic life no matter what he's said, sherlock has nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1910724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acervate/pseuds/acervate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has nightmares after returning home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of the Mind

_He's driving as fast as he can, the loose bits of gravel spitting up beneath the wheels. Mary is sitting_ _behind_ _him, her arms tight around his waist as they swerve around corners and skid on street. They see the park, see the fire begin to build on the wood and his heart drops and he_ _can't_ _breathe. He all but jumps off the bike, not paying any attention to the other passenger as he runs towards the pile of wood. He screams at_ _people_ _to move, shoves at them and tries to run but_ _they're_ _holding him back. He can hear a man screaming, he knows_ _it's_ _not him. The fire warms his face and battles the cool chill of the air that settles on him and drowns him and makes his limbs heavy. He can hear not one, not two, but three voices. He knows them all so well and_ _they're_ _screaming in horror and pain and_ _agony_ _and the_ _people_ _of the crowd are laughing and cheering as the Guy Fawkes model goes up,_ _oblivious_ _to the three people trapped in the blaze and burning. A hand break from the wood, the skin red and raw and beginning to bubble. A body claws its way out and he would know it anywhere. The smell of burning flesh_ _permeates_ _his nose as John's face comes into view, disfigured and ruined as he_ _rasps_ _his name,_ _voice_ _hoarse and_ _broken_ _and the screams of his other two friends are pounding in his ears and suddenly Mary is there, her face stained with tears and John's blood and she tells him in the most certain terms, "This is your fault."_

_The_ _crowd_ _turns on him and they_ _chant_ _, some old, some young, but they all know, and he needs to know that_ _it's_ _his fault,_ _they're_ _dead_ _because of_ _him and he_ _fucked_ _up,_ _they're_ _dead,_ _they're_   _deaddeadeaddead_ _\--_

Sherlock's eyes slammed open as a cry was wretched from his mouth. He sat up quickly, tugging at the blankets he'd kicked away in his thrashing and pulled them tightly around his shaking shoulders. Sherlock rubbed at his eyes and found them wet with unshed tears, making the detective's hackles rise. He whipped the blankets off once more and stumbled out of bed, tugging at his hair as he tried to clear his mind.

"John." Sherlock's voice sounded so odd to himself, the whisper of his friend's name a foreign word on his tongue. Sherlock found himself reaching for his phone where he'd thrown it carelessly on the bedside table earlier after plugging in the charger. He stilled and swallowed as the screen lit up, boasting the bright green battery on a dark background and Sherlock knew he couldn't do it. John wouldn't care for his troubles, not at this time when he was asleep. He had to get up in the morning and report to work, he needed his sleep. Waking up due to the harsh trill of his phone so that his used to be flatmate with an inability to understand emotion could try to describe just  _why_ he had called him wasn't what John wanted to have to deal with. With a heavy heart and tired eyes, Sherlock disconnected his phone and left his bedroom, hands itching for his bow. He didn't need sleep. He would be fine.

 

* * *

 

John was used to Sherlock's moods. Sometimes he was harsh, sometimes he was happy and satisfied with a good case, and other times he was just...there. He didn't move from the couch, didn't speak, just existed. That was of course before he had disappeared for three bloody years after faking his death, only to return with a corny French accent and some stupid moustache drawn on. He'd apologized, which surprised John and he did seem to actually realize that pretending to be dead for three years was a bit not good. It didn't make John any less angry, and he ended up punching him. All back to normal, he had thought much later as he laid awake in bed. Why did he think that? Life with Sherlock hadn't been normal; it'd been anything but. Life with him was heads in the fridge and Sherlock coming home covered in blood while wielding a harpoon and a skull on the mantelpiece. It had been odd, but he'd loved it.

He didn't love this. Sherlock wasn't okay, and John knew it. He knew his friend resisted sleep and would go days without it, but this was different. Sherlock looked a bit worn on those occasions, falling into a deep sleep as soon as the adrenaline wore off. But now, Sherlock sat heavily in his chair and John could see dark circles under his eyes when the detective turned to look at him. He seemed hollow, like he was a hull of the normally...well not chipper, but bright energy that surrounded him.

"John. Hello." God, he sounded tired. Sherlock blinked heavily as he got up, looking as though he was unused to movement. John went forward, frowning as he looked Sherlock over.

"God, you alright? You look like shit." John told him bluntly, eyes flicking to Sherlock's exposed forearms. He didn't see any marks, just a few nicotine patches. Sherlock's faced closed off a bit and he nodded.

"Yes, I'm fine. Why are you here?" John knew Sherlock didn't mean it in the way it sounded, but it still cut him a bit. John gave him an odd look as he sat down in his...in the red chair he had grown attached to while living at Baker Street.

"I came around to see you?" John said, raising an eyebrow. "Do you not want me here?"

"Hm, no don't be daft." Sherlock said. "I just thought you'd be busy with work."

"I got out before I came over. It's past 6, Sherlock."

"Oh, so it is."

John paused. "Are you sure you're alright? Like, actually alright and not just saying it because you're Sherlock Holmes, as brain with no need for the brawn?"

"I said I was fine." Sherlock bristled. "If something was wrong, I'd be sure to tell you, how's that?" Sherlock's tone was cold, and John knew better than to push him when he got that way. The rest of his visit was tense, as if Sherlock couldn't stand to have him there. John left feeling oddly empty, like some part of him was missing. His leg gave a small twinge, and John went home to Mary. 

 

* * *

 

After over 5 days without sleep, Sherlock wished that it really all was just transport. His eyes were constantly falling shut and he longed for just a lick of sleep, but couldn't bring himself to have to experience the nightmares again. He wasn't managing too well, which was absurd really since others with weaker wills than he had gone much longer. They were probably a bit healthier if he looked at it truthfully, but that was besides the point. Sherlock had managed to survive for three years on the barest of all "necessities", he could handle not sleeping.

Sherlock rubbed at his eyes as he pulled off his goggles, setting the blow torch down as he turned off the gas. His eyes burned, from the heat of the tool and trying to keep them open. He sat down heavily, sinking into the should be uncomfortable kitchen chair with a weary sigh. He could close his eyes without falling asleep, it was simple. Very simple. Too simple to muck up.

_It is cold on top of St.  Bartholomew s , the wind nipping at his face and  blowing  his coattails back. John is but a speck on the pavement, close enough for Sherlock to know  it's  him, far enough so that he  won't  have to see betrayal and loathing on his friend's face. Moriarty is dead behind him, a bullet in his brain and blood leaking out on the rooftop. It makes him seem oddly exposed, more human, and less of a spider. Sherlock finds himself hating it for some unknown reason._

_He realizes belatedly that  someone  is talking to him, oh, right his phone. John is on the  phone with him._

_"Why are you saying this?" His voice is so pained,  confused . Sherlock hates it. Brilliant  John, being reduced to a plain, pondering speck on the sidewalk. Why did it come to this. He wants to make time go back, to when they first met and save the both of them from the inevitable. Sherlock can say it. He can say it and there will be no repercussions._

_"Because I love you." Sherlock chokes out. "Because you're the only important one."_

_John is silent before he breathes in raggedly. "Oh Sherlock. Sherlock, love." John steps forward and Sherlock nearly pitches off  the roof, holding out his hand._

_"Stay where you are. For me? Please?" Sherlock knows it is a low blow, begging a powerless man to do what he, a  panicked , doomed man asks. But John does it anyways, and so is the folly in  loyalty ._

_"This phone call--it’s,  er...it’s my note." Sherlock says and he can imagine the  denial  wanting to surface in John's funny little brain. Poor, poor man. "It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?"_

_"Leave a note when?" John asks, and Sherlock wants to laugh. He  doesn't  though, and he can feel self hatred welling up with_ _bright, burning flames as tears begin to fill his eyes._

_"Goodbye, John." Sherlock says, and he tosses his phone away. John is now panicking, wanting to run to him.  He'd  try to  catch  him, the poor sod. Sherlock spreads his arms and John screams his name, and suddenly the air is rushing up to meet him and the fear is here and it fills his body and he is going to hit the pavement why  aren't  his people moving  nononono  this  isn't how it happens --_

_He hits the ground with a sickening crack and the pain is so white hot, so blinding thar Sherlock wishes he was dead. He  isn't , not yet at least. Pedestrians move, and John does too but Sherlock is stuck. He knows his skull has been struck hard, it should be shattered  and he should be dead. But he  isn't  and all he can feel is his lungs trying to bring in air as he goes into shock and John, John is here and  he's  holding his hand and crying. No, Sherlock  wasn't  supposed to see John like this. John, beautiful and wonderful and strong, he was never supposed to be like this. A red dot is suddenly on John's forehead and it reflects in his wet eyes as he begs for Sherlock to hold on and the effect is  instantaneous. John's pitches forward as the bullet leaves, his head spitting blood and gore through the exit wound and he is gone in the blink of an eye. Sherlock is still not dead and his pain has only intensified until he cannot  breathe  and lays there on the pavement like a fish out of water. Another body falls and Sherlock can see that it is Mrs. Hudson, blood  coverin g her face and dress.  Multiple  bullets then. Her shooter did not chose to be quick and clean.  Lestrade  falls as well, but he is not dead. Blood  steadily  pumps out from the the wound in his chest and he is coughing blood and no, no he has a wife and kids and he is looking at Sherlock with such pain that the detective cannot handle it and he screams, throat aching and body burning with agony as someone steps down on his throat with a shoe clad foot and smiles sweetly at him. Moriarty is still bleeding and his eyes are blank like he is dead but he is raising a gun and pulls the trigger and the shot it too much and Sherlock gives a feeble, withering shout as it pierces his  body and tears him apart--_

The sound of the door downstairs slamming woke Sherlock and he fell off his chair, hissing in pain as his leg twisted under him. He could hear faint murmuring and wondered if it was a client. He rushed off to the bathroom to scrub at his red, bloodshot eyes and pale face with cool water as he heard footsteps coming up the steps.

"Sherlock?" A sigh filled the detective's frame as he heard John's voice and he swallowed hard and dried his face. John looked around worriedly before he saw Sherlock coming out of the bathroom and sighed.

"There you are. I heard a crash, is everything okay?"

"Fine." Sherlock replied, but he knew how he must've sounded, voice hoarse and ugly. John surged forward and grabbed his arm harshly, yanking up the sleeve of his dressing gown. John looked mystified and angry not to see any track marks, making Sherlock pull his arm back.

"What are you doing?" He spat, a wave of vertigo overtaking him. John took hold of his trembling hands and glared at them, before turning the look on Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson said you aren't sleeping, so I thought you might be using again." John said, his voice as cold as Sherlock's. "But behold, there's nothing. So what is it, Sherlock? Tell me."

"It's none of your business." He growled, scowling. John barked out a laugh and gave him an incredulous look.

"None of my business? You can't even take care of yourself, so someone has to!"

"Don't you have a girlfriend for that? Oh pardon,  _fiánce_ _._ " Sherlock hated the hurt that flashed across his face, but knew he couldn't take it back. John is angry in the next moment, pushing Sherlock back against the table.

"Don't bring her into this. You know what? Fuck you, Sherlock. I thought you were dead for three bloody years, only to find out it's quite the opposite! You think I want to come by to find you dead from something even stupider than jumping off a building?!"

Sherlock was pushing back before he even knew what he was doing, rising up and forcing John back. "You think those three years were  _easy_  for me?" He hissed, teeth bared. "Those were the hardest years of my  _life_! I spent them taking down a criminal web that as you know and seem to forget, was left behind by Moriarty. There were snipers trained on you on that day at St. Barts, I was  _protecting you!_  I suppose love doesn't count for anything anymore, huh?!" Sherlock yelled, hands going out to push John against the counter.

"Sherlock--"

"No, John. Do you really want to know? I've been having nightmares, bloody nightmares!" Sherlock laughed bitterly. "I see you burning in that fire, or I see all you shot and bleeding out. The man who as you is all brain with no need for the brawn can't control his own  _fucking_ _mind!_  I'm  _scared_ , John! How's that?! Go on, laugh it up!"

"Sherlock!"

" _What?!_ " He screamed, unprepared for what came next. John's hands clutched at his face as lips crashed against his, kissing hard and finally silencing him. Sherlock felt himself melting into it, hands gripping John's arms as if he were the only thing tethering him to the earth. John pulled away and brought Sherlock down so that he could put their foreheads together.

"Sherlock, oh Sherlock no. No, listen to me. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." John whispered, gradually pulling Sherlock down onto the floor so that the detective could rest against him. "Mary and I broke up. We're over."

"Why?" Sherlock whispered, shaking his head. John tightened his hold on Sherlock and kissed him again, lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

"Because she's not you. Sherlock, I love her, but I love you so much more. I didn't understand why you'd gone off, and I just ignored what you said before because I was so angry. I was hurt and lonely and I just  _missed so much._ "

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said, and John shook his head. He pulled Sherlock into a tight, crushing embrace and held him as he would disappear if John let go.

"Don't be. Don't be sorry Sherlock, not for this." John soothed, pulling back before moving to kiss him again. His hands smoothed across Sherlock's curls and down to his cheekbones, before coming to rest on his neck. "I want you to get some rest. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock tensed. "John--"

"I'll be here. I'll wait out here, or go downstairs and talk with Mrs. Hudson, anything."

"Will you sleep with me? Not  _with_  me but, there, in my bed. You don't have to sleep but..." Sherlock inhaled deeply. "I don't want to be alone."

John smiled at that and he nodded before kissing Sherlock once more.

"You won't be alone." John smiled Not if I have any say in it at least."

Sherlock let out a tired laugh as he nodded.

"That's quite good then." He said, and kissed John softly. They rose up off the floor and went to Sherlock's bedroom, John closing the door behind them quietly. Sherlock laid down on the bed stiffly, unsure of how this would work. But when John took off his coat and shoes, then crawled up behind Sherlock, the detective felt himself relax. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and hugged him close, lips brushing against the exposed skin on the base of his neck. Sherlock let out a weary sigh as he closed his eyes.

If nightmares were a matter of the mind, then perhaps a matter of the heart could remedy them. 


End file.
